And Fate Must Have Giggled
by Evelyna1
Summary: It was supposed to be a vacation. He had not intended to loose his head… And yet… oh, the possibilities…
1. Fate's Joke

Disclaimer: Highlander does not belong to me. No money is being made with this story.

**And Fate Must Have Giggled**

"How to make gods laugh? Tell them about your plans for the future."  
~Unknown

* * *

For the rest of his life, however short it might be, that moment would be burnt into his memory with supernatural clarity.

.

The sensation of falling backward.

The pain in his wrist.

The Ivanhoe, knocked out of his hand, sailing through the air in a graceful arc.

His attacker's face, framed by short, dirty blond hair.

Lips, contorted in a snarl.

Blue eyes, flashing with anger and fear.

The soft buzzing at the base of his head that informed him of his enemy's youth.

The sensation of his opponent's quickening, churning with fear and anticipation for its first joining with another of its kind.

The lean silhouette, the raised arm, the fingers wrapped around a handle, the blade reflecting the light of a streetlamp.

.

And then time sped up again.

The impact hurt. The breath was knocked out of him. Pebbles dug into his back. The pain that bloomed on the back of his head made him see stars.

He knew he was helpless now, that he would never get up in time, but he wouldn't – couldn't – give up.

.

Maybe it was desperation, the fear of finally loosing the game of tag that he had played with the grim reaper for so long.

Maybe it was insanity, senility caused by too many years on this ball of dirt that called itself a planet.

Maybe it was intuitive genius.

Instead of trying to avoid it, he awaited the bite of the blade, and with his last thought, he _pushed_.

* * *

"– electrical accident. Repeatedly, bolts of lightning erupted and destroyed everything in their path, claiming several lives and taking out the power supply of the entire city. An area of more than ten blocks is badly charred and the alley which is, presumably, the point of origin is completely destroyed. An inexplicable and gruesome curiosity is the beheaded body of an as of yet unidentified, Caucasian male, that seems to be untouched by the destruction. The police are investigating.

Internationally, the Prime Minister of Great Britain has – "

The Watcher stabbed his finger at the remote control and shut off the TV.

With trembling fingers he opened his laptop and logged onto the network. He didn't have to search for the report he needed, it was on the bulletin board and everyone and their pet seemed to have an opinion.

Not bothering to read anything, he opened the first picture. A single glance told him what he didn't want to know, didn't want to believe.

One of his best friends, the world's most sarcastic pain in the ass, had lost his head last night.

* * *

It was an unremarkable Tuesday morning when the call came. Grumbling, he stood up and reached for the phone.

"Its too bloody early. Where's the fire?"

"In the morgue!" came the reply. The caller had tried for sarcasm but failed miserably. The bitter and slightly tearful voice, so unlike the normally cheerful barkeeper, more than the words, told him that something was seriously wrong.

"Joe? What happened? What can I do?"

"Nothing. It's too late. Duncan – it's too late!"

That was going nowhere fast. And Joe sounded like he was seriously contemplating the merits of a nervous breakdown.

"I'll come over. It'll take only ten minutes."

He probably didn't sound very reassuring, because he was quite worried himself. What could possibly have happened for Joe to react like this?

He dressed quickly, then jumped into his car and broke a whole lot of traffic laws as he sped over to Joe's.

Bursting into the living room, he saw his friend sitting on the couch, eyes closed and teartracks on his face.

On the coffee table in front of him was his laptop.

Not knowing what to say, Duncan sat down beside Joe.

His gaze fell upon the computer screen.

He should have looked away, he knew that Joe didn't want him seeing the Watcher's database, but the picture next to the article captured his eyes.

And suddenly, the reason for Joe's tears was horribly clear.

* * *

Later that night, Joe was a costumer in his own bar. Michael handled the bar, while he sat with Duncan and, for the first time in years, tried to drown his sorrows.

The presence of the young blonde that flopped down beside them was entirely unwelcome, but neither could summon the energy to tell the youth to go away.

"Don't I get a beer?"

Maybe ignoring the annoyance would make it go away.

"I feel unloved."

It didn't.

"Why the long faces? You look like someone beheaded your… puppy."

And that was enough. Joe felt something breaking inside. He lifted his head to snap something at the infuriating blonde, or maybe yell, or break a nose.

But something stopped the impeding explosion.

He didn't know the face, but that smirk and that sprawl were entirely too familiar.

There was no rational explanation that he could think of, nothing at all that supported the crazy thought that shot through his head, but he couldn't suppress the sudden hope – something about this person just screamed Methos.

It must have shown on his face, for the annoying smirk suddenly turned secretive as his vis-à-vis leant forward.

"Hey, it happened to Darius, too!"

It took Joe a moment to connect the dots.

Darius.

Complete chance of personality.

One quickening overwhelming another.

Methos, the oldest immortal of them all.

And, because of his time with the horsemen, the one with the most quickenings taken, thus necessarily with the strongest sense of self.

Quickenings contained memories!

"Methos?!"

The smirk became satisfied, and in lieu of an answer, the blonde repeated the first question.

"Don't I get a beer?"

Joe felt like dancing, he was so relieved.

Duncan, who had until now uncharacteristically remained silent, snorted with laughter.

"Only you, old man, only you. But seriously… you got beat by a girl!?"


	2. The Youngest and The Oldest

**Points of View:**

_The Youngest_

_. _

She had been terrified ever since she had seen the car racing towards her.

Petrified with the realization that she could not escape death.

_- - - Squealing tires, a painful impact - - - _

Alarmed, waking up in the morgue.

_- - - Bone deep cold, surrounded by dead bodies - - - _

Worried when a strange man with headache-inducing presence explained the facts of immortality.

_- - - Hiding behind a car in, wrapped in a white sheet. "You are immortal."_

Terrified, learning to fight and holding a deadly weapon.

_- - - Ringing steel on steel, the bite of the blade that could no longer permanently harm her without beheading - - - _

Frightened when learning the details of a quickening.

_- - - It hurts. It lasts only a few moments. You will hardly get any memories. It will be over soon, and then you have to get out. - - - _

Shocked when she, late one night in this new confusing life, realized that she really _would_ have to kill to stay alive.

_- - - "There is no escaping the game." - - - _

Scared when first feeling a buzz other than her Teachers'.

_- - - A man turned. Saw her. - - - _

Horrified when realizing that this evening, however it played out, would define the rest of eternity.

_- - - Running tonight would mean running for eternity - - - _

So she had gathered all this terror, this horror and fear and let it fill her with adrenalin.

Her fright was her weapon in this first real fight, and it served her well.

So what if she made a few mistakes. So what if she forgot to challenge him, to ask his name. So what if she had let him see her fear, inadvertently made him see her weapon as a weakness.

The dark haired, handsome man was either out of practice or surprised that she hadn't even bothered with challenging him. Maybe both. No matter, she thought as she put far more power than reasonable in her first blow, hoping to survive the fight.

It was over nearly before it had begun. Both combatants were equally surprised when she managed to knock the large broadsword out of the thin man's hand. But her Teacher had drilled one move over and over into her head and her muscles until she could do it in her sleep. So it was more instinct than thought that made her swing at her fallen opponent's neck.

If she had noticed it, she might have wondered why he made no move to escape the blade, but she didn't.

Lost in the haze of terror and adrenaline and exhilaration, the sudden resistance against her blade surprised her.

It was her only warning before the quickening began.

And it hurt. And it gave her a lot of memories. And it was not over after a few moments.

Time lost its meaning as she was pulled into a maelstrom of recollections and emotions, as she lived in times and places long gone.

Her pitiful handful of years had no chance of keeping something even resembling an identity as she drowned in millennia.

* * *

_The Oldest_

.

When silence returned, the alley was completely destroyed. Only a young woman, a beheaded body and two swords were untouched by the devastation.

Slowly, the woman began to move. Groaning she pulled herself to her feet. She took a look around herself and shook her head.

When she saw the body, she flinched and took a step back. However, she quickly stepped toward the corpse again and looked at it with sudden interest. Then she patted herself down, touched her face, cupped her breasts and measured her waist with her fingers.

"Well would you look at this?" she murmured. "And here I thought I'd seen everything!"

The Ivanhoe, she noted as she picked it up, was too heavy for her thin frame. So she picked up the other blade, too, a second class katana. Well, she could get a better sword.

"Maybe I should get Cassandra to be my Teacher…" the world's oldest immortal murmured. "Turning over a new leaf and all that."

Fate, she thought, must be giggling.


End file.
